Look Into My Eyes and the World Looks Back
by Lillielle
Summary: JKR owns all, I own nothing! Post-war, Barty Crouch Jr. has his soul back and Hermione's here to help him...and lose her heart to him as well.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: All right, so I've recently developed an obsession with David Tennant. Particularly as Barty Crouch Jr. So this plot bunny started gnawing at my brain and won't let go. XD I'm a naughty llama, but I promise, I will stop neglecting my other stories at some point. XD

Basically for this story, the war has been over for years. Hermione is in her late 20s. Her new patient is Barty Crouch Jr., who has gotten his soul back. :3 There will DEFINITELY be romance and happy lemons in here. Although I assure you, Barty will still be sorta crazy. ;) Not sure about any other pairings yet, I don't know if I want to adhere to canon or not (also applies to canon deaths). Let the story begin!

Azkaban had to be the worst place Hermione Granger had ever visited, hands down. Although the dementors had all been destroyed, their taint still lingered in the gloomy stone walls. The very air felt thick and oppressive, and she had to fight the urge to hyperventilate or simply to turn and flee the way she had come.

Nobody had realized until the end of the war that victims who had been Kissed regained their souls when the dementor who Kissed them was destroyed. As such, Azkaban was now filled with suddenly-awake, very much alive, and still very dangerous prisoners. A few-very few-showed the potential for rehabilitation and release to the outside world (or at least a private, secluded mental hospital as far from Azkaban as one could get), and that was why Hermione was here today. A Mind Healer for St. Mungo's and a witch of some repute, Hermione had decided to take on the most difficult (and most infamous) case still housed here-Bartemius Crouch Junior.

She still remembered him impersonating Alastor Moody in her fourth year. Still remembered the odd darts of his tongue as he slathered his bottom lip with spit. A nervous tic? She wondered if he still had it, or if the loss and subsequent re-gain of his soul had removed such traits from him. Would he remember her? Miss Granger, the impertinent know-it-all mudblood? Truthfully, he'd never said the word as near as she could remember, but she wouldn't be surprised. They were all alike in some ways. Why this one would be any different, she didn't know.

And yet...Hermione's steps slowed as she reached the ward where Barty Crouch Jr. was housed. She'd always felt a strange connection with the man. She had never told anybody. She felt sick and ashamed of it. And it wasn't that she'd been a secret Voldemort sympathizer or anything. On the contrary, she hated He Who Must Not Be Named and was glad he was dead. Had helped kill him.

But the loyalty Barty Jr. spoke of...perhaps that led to the strange thrill deep in her stomach as she proceeded to his cell. Although she could not agree with the madman's cause, his fierce loyalty to the Dark Lord had stirred Hermione. He would kill for Voldemort, die for Voldemort, do anything for Voldemort. Anything at all. She even understood his anger at the Death Eaters who had fled or lied their way out of Azkaban, the ones who had never stood and remained faithful. It disturbed her, but the understanding weighed more.

He was standing when she reached his cell door, standing against the wall, his arms crossed casually across his chest. He was painfully thin, she noted with a pang. Kissed victims were rarely treated with the proper care they needed. She had no doubt that he'd been badly neglected back here, stuck in a damp cell with moldy straw on the floor and a meal once a day, if he was lucky. You had to feed a Kissed victim by hand, you see, and most of the guards didn't want to bother. Creeped them out back here, with all those blank gazes and dead faces.

"Mr. Crouch?" Hermione inquired, although she knew the answer. He came closer, his steps unsteady. Dark brown eyes burned out of that sharp-featured face. His hair, too long, flopped against his collar.

"That was my father's name," he rasped, his voice raspy and broken. "Please call me Barty." He tried a smile-it stretched his lips painfully wide.

"All right," Hermione said uncertainly. She pushed her hair back behind her ears with a nervous gesture. "My name is-"

"Hermione Granger," Barty interrupted. His smile widened. "The know-it-all. I remember you...sort of." Confusion crossed his face, muddying his eyes. "It's all a blur," he muttered fretfully, rubbing at his head.

"It's all right, Mr.-Barty, you don't need to try and remember now," Hermione reassured him. "There's more than enough time for that later. For now, just know that I'm your Mind Healer for the duration, and I shall be taking you out of here tonight. The Ministry has conferred with St. Mungo's and has concurred that you are safe enough to be removed from Azkaban for a period consisting of no less than six weeks. After that, your case will be reviewed and you may either be set free into the wizarding world, sent to Breezy Pines Convalescent and Rehabilitation Hospital, or, at worst, sent back to Azkaban. But I don't think it will come to that," she finished with a practiced smile.

Barty laughed hollowly, bracing himself against the wall.

"So I finally get out of here, huh? With you? Are you my new jailor?" he inquired, his tongue darting out to lap at his bottom lip. It seemed he did indeed still possess that nervous habit, Hermione noticed.

"Mind Healer, Barty. Not jailor," Hermione said. "Technically, you are free to go at any time. Unfortunately, the chances of you passing your review in six weeks without my help is well, unlikely."

"Of course," Barty snorted. "Pretty name for it, I suppose, but it's still a prison. At least there will be no more dementors." His eyes went blank as he remembered the dementor lowering its hood, that icy raddle of breath that had puffed into his face as scabrous arms pulled him closer...

"Barty!" Hermione's concerned voice yanked him out of the nightmare. He took a deep breath, his tongue swiping across his entire top lip.

"Yes?" he said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. He could hear the shakiness in his own voice and cursed himself.

"The guard is here," Hermione said, indicated the broad-shouldered blonde man who had finally puffed up to her side, holding a large ring of keys. "Come on, Mr. Cr-Barty. Let's get you out of here."

_That sounds like a good plan_, Barty thought as the door swung open and thudded against the wall. He took a few shaky steps forward, his eyes squinting at the relatively bright light of the corridor. _Out. Free. Even...home?_

Hermione put a gentle hand on one of his shoulders and guided him forward. He wrapped his arms around himself and let her.


	2. Chapter 2

It was only once Hermione was guiding him into a neat, slightly run-down flat on a crooked street somewhere in the midst of England that Barty allowed himself to realize that he was finally free. He couldn't control the tremor that ran through him, an action that Granger could not fail to notice.

"Are you all right, Mr.-Barty?" she asked with concern, quickly guiding him to sit down in an overstuffed chair. He scowled, feeling his tongue slip out for a brief moment and slather his bottom lip with spit. It was a nervous habit he'd possessed since childhood, dealing with his father's icy rages, and he'd never managed to shake it.

"Of course," he said with a flippant air that still came off false. His arms wrapped around his slender body again. Merlin, he was thin. He'd never had much meat on his bones in the first place, but this-this was emaciated, practically.

"Well, then," Hermione pinned a smile on her lips and plopped down on the sofa. "This is where you will be staying for the next six weeks. It is, in fact, my personal flat, but I didn't feel right setting you up anywhere else." Barty's eyebrow went up and stayed up. Oh really, then? This was bound to be interesting.

"There are a few ground rules we must go over," she continued. "First of all, and I am sorry for this because you are a grown man, but at least for the first several weeks, you are not allowed to go out of the flat without obtaining my permission and, as much as possible, going with me as your companion. Primarily, this is for your safety. As a result of what you have-been through, you may be prone to panic attacks, flashbacks, and waking nightmares. If you are alone or around people who don't understand your mental condition, they could become much worse. Someone to help pull you out of that can only be a help.

"In addition, there are still people around who may recognize you and pin blame upon you for the events of the war." She shifted her shoulders uneasily and looked up, pinning him with those bright brown eyes of hers. He stopped fidgeting, finally keeping eye contact with her.

"It's wrong of them to do so, by the way, Barty," Hermione said gently. "I believe that you are fully and completely rehabilitated, no matter what the less-informed of the wizarding world believe. The six weeks before your review are mainly to help you acclimate to the world as it is now, and to assist you with any difficulties you have after your ordeal.

"Do you have any questions?" she asked. Barty shook his head, licking his lips again. He didn't know what to do with himself, so he just sat there, like a scarecrow. He felt so bloody stupid. His mind was chaotic, whirling with scenes from a past life. He remembered the girl again at fourteen, all coltish limbs and awkward, bashful smile. He'd wanted to pull her aside at the Yule Ball and tell her something...but what? He shook his head. It was gone again.

"Your room is the one at the end of the hall," she informed him, standing and setting her tote on the coffee table. He nodded and jerked to his feet. Perhaps a nap would help clear some of the cobwebs from his thoughts.

"You have no set bedtime or anything like that, although I do want you to take your meals with me as much as possible," Hermione said, lightly touching his arm and directing him to face her. He nodded, unwilling to trust his voice. The world seemed to be closing in again, and Barty wanted nothing more than to get to his room and finally face the fact that he was out of Azkaban.

Finally, she let him go, and he stumbled to the room indicated to be his, collapsing on the blue bedspread and feeling perilously close to tears. Barty didn't know who he was anymore, and the thought petrified him. Not to mention having that...girl on his case all the time now. He knew she must have gotten older-she'd filled out some, and her face had matured-but in his mind, she was still a fourth-year bushy-haired bookworm. How dare she order him around?

And yet...could he even look after himself anymore? He didn't know. 


End file.
